


I'll Meet You Halfway

by Narkito



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Asexuality, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-02
Updated: 2011-04-02
Packaged: 2017-10-17 11:26:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,423
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/176374
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Narkito/pseuds/Narkito
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock is asexual, John is sexual, how does that work out?</p>
            </blockquote>





	I'll Meet You Halfway

**Author's Note:**

> This was written in response to a prompt in the [sherlockbbc_fic](http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/6487.html) kink meme, which can be found [here](http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/6487.html?thread=31884631#t31884631).

It’s nothing like masturbating in the shower. He needs to be very focused on what he’s doing. He can’t allow himself wonder off to something else, he can’t go over the latest blood spatter paper he read whilst he’s trying to make John forget his own name. It requires copious amounts of energy and high attention to details, two things at which he excels. But it leaves him drained. There are no such things as seconds with him. It’s too exhausting. The arduous work of cataloguing John’s noises, puffs of air, gasps, cries, moans, twitches, erotic spots; all of his delicious reactions to his own doing. It takes time to get there, it takes effort.

He’s not going to lie about it either. He likes the sounds John makes; he likes to know he’s the responsible for all the writhing and blushing. He _likes_ kissing, he _genuinely_ likes kissing. The tenderness of the act. The roughness of their tongues sliding in tandem. How something inside of him softens and tightens at the same time.

What he doesn’t like it’s the frequency his partner demands. Not that he actually _demands_ anything. But he gets edgy. His answers to rather simple questions come charged with other _emotions_ he can’t quite describe. He tries to touch him every chance he gets, and it’s annoying. The more he feels the pressure, the less he wants to do it. But he compromises; he knows this is what it’s all about, so he compromises.

He doesn’t like sex. He’s not interested in it either, not even from a scientific-let’s-collect-tons-of-data point of view. But he’s willing to provide some relief to his partner, to John. He understands the urge; he feels it too, albeit in an intellectual level. Boredom is to him, what no-sex is to John: unacceptable.

But John wants more. And he doesn’t have much more to give.

Getting him off fully clothed is fairly easy, but it will lose its novelty far too soon. He wonders (he’s sure John does too), how far they can take the relationship like this.

 

He’s done, utterly spent, wrinkles all over his shirt, his mind indulging on the latest discoveries he’s got waiting for him on his laptop. John’s panting at his side. Bright-eyed and relaxed. Smiling. He can’t bring himself to smile genuinely after this. But he plasters on something very close to it on his face and lets John ride the last of his post-orgasmic haze. He’s usually happy that John’s happy. Not today. Today was unexpected; some sort of sexual relief the only way to take things back to normal again. Bad day at the surgery, bad day with the leg, bad day in general. He can manage. This is what compromise is all about.

The first time, before they talked about it, before Sherlock knew how to _explain_ , John had cupped him through his trousers and revelled at his erection, making a passing remark about it (something that is probably said often enough in the heat of the act, nothing too serious from most people’s perspective). Sherlock had frozen. So suddenly, it had led John to believe he had inadvertently broken something. John tucked himself as best as possible and sat on the edge of the bed. Raising his eyebrows, looking for an explanation.

 _“Errm, yes, there’s something you might need to know before we move any further.”_

 _Something you need to know_ , seemed like quite the understatement and John had been... nonplussed, at best. He did a quick research and maintained hope that it was something they could fix. At the time he thought Sherlock hardly appeared like the one to have any sort of top-shelf experience in the social arena. (Quite possibly) virgin at thirtysomething was clearly a frightening thought, so, John took it upon himself, like a challenge. He shouldn’t have. Sherlock squirmed under his touch and looked mildly lost, but most certainly not aroused.

 _”I don’t understand! When I touch you... you do get, you know, physically aroused. Then why...?”_

 _“I know. My body isn’t dead, it’s not malfunctioning either. I just don’t get... mentally aroused, I guess.”_

 _“So you don’t fancy me? Is that it?”_

 _“I didn’t say that! Of course I like you, in every single aspect... except this one, but you shouldn’t feel bad about it, I’ve never felt anything of the sort for anyone, ever.”_

 _“Yeah, that’s very reassuring Sherlock, really... it makes me feel a whole lot better.”_

 

Sometimes he wants to touch him so bad, it actually hurts. Sherlock can be lazily reading on the computer, or scribbling about the poisonous effects of apricots in one of his many notebooks, and the necessity to reach and stroke his hair strikes him like a thunder-storm lightning, frizzling his nerve endings raw to the point of incandescence. He’s learnt to read the cues by now; still, he gets them wrong every now and then. He goes for a hug only to be drenched in the cold water of a half-shrug, a frown, or a very painful “not now!”. In those cases he has no other option than to take his incandescence somewhere else and reroute all that energy into a mindless task that might help him forget (impossible) exactly how much he needs to touch and be touched right now.

They fight. Of course they fight. Sherlock ridicules his medical abilities and bedside manner, and John slams the door on his way out, not before shouting exactly how much Sherlock needs to see a psychiatrist, because it just _isn’t normal_. John comes back the next day and apologises. Sherlock nods and manages a sorrowful look on his eyes that’s meant to say more than what it’s actually possible: _I’m sorry too, apology accepted, you hurt me, I’m afraid you’ll keep on hurting me, please don’t do that again._ Not everything comes across, but they try.

Other times, the urgency is too great. Like today.

John’s trying, he’s trying really hard. They’ve been busy, both of them. Cases, the surgery, bills, life threatening situations; the usual. And John’s been keeping count on it all. He’s trying not to be grumpy, he’s trying not to let his crabbiness get the best of him, after all, it’s not Sherlock’s fault (not that it’s John’s either, the events sorted out themselves this way, nothing else). Plus, you can’t really rush him. He knows and understands that now. Sherlock needs to be in a place, in a special cognitive state, before anything else can happen. However, as hard as he tries, sometimes (only a few) the need, the want, the constant dissatisfaction _does_ get the best of him. And Sherlock notices, of course he does. But that doesn’t necessarily mean he actually understands.

“John! What the hell’s wrong with you today!?”

“Nothing.”

“Yeah, well, it doesn’t feel like nothing when you’re all but biting my head off.”

“Leave it alone. It’s nothing.”

“Is this because of the fish on the tub? ‘Cause I swear they’ll be gone by morning.”

“No, it’s _NOT_... sorry, no, it’s not the fish in the tub... it’s... I want to, you know, have sex or something with you, but I can’t even hug you today, you just keep brushing me off. We haven’t done anything for three weeks. I don’t know what else to do. I’m so horny I can barely think straight anymore, I don’t know what to do!”

“Oh.”

“ _Oh?_ That’s all you have to say? Sherlock! What if we don’t have sex, what if we don’t _do_ anything for three months! What am I supposed to do _then_. I’m afraid of what I might do, I... I don’t know what I’m talking about anymore, I love you, I really do, but don’t you understand how hard it is being around you, and not being allowed to touch you at all?!”

 

Thankfully, the occasions when his advances are well received are plenty. He hugs Sherlock from behind, and Sherlock kisses the back of his hand and rests his cheek in there for a while. They dance to nonexistent music. They kiss in the kitchen, Sherlock’s back to the fridge, magnets hitting the ground and being lost forever to the dusty mess under the furniture. They look into each other’s eyes and play Cyclops for a while. They laugh. They smile. They kiss again.

It’s not a perfect system, Sherlock thinks (John agrees), but as long as they keep the communication-channel open, they’ll be fine. In the end, they have to compromise, like with everything else in life.


End file.
